The sharp blade bore a groove along its edge. Even without touching it, its keenness was palpable. Staring at it, Nevia suddenly recalled Gonijiaer’s words: “This dagger was left to me by my parents.” She remembered the girl’s gaze—untouchable yet lost in memory. For Gonijiaer, it must hold irreplaceable memories, Nevia guessed. But why leave such a precious thing to her?
Could it be affection? A token of love…?
Nevia chuckled softly to herself. Impossible. If she were still the handsome Demon King, maybe a girl would fall for her. But now, in this little girl’s body? Anyone with such thoughts must be a gentleman (pervert). In this medieval-like era, who’d have lolicon tendencies? Especially between girls.
This world felt simpler than the one she kept trying to forget. Yet thinking this way made her feel a bit hopeless.
Nevia knew her expression must look odd. She slightly lowered her gaze, slender fingers stroking the dagger’s handle. Its intricate, raised patterns felt familiar. The mottled black designs reminded her of Gonijiaer’s tattered black clothes.
Even badly injured, she’d acted tough. Even left without a word—was that conviction? Nevia didn’t know hers. What about her own? Why did she keep going?
A wave of confusion washed over her. Today’s events threatened the quiet life she’d built.
She’d tried to forget everything, even pretending to be a child. But memories of being an adult, of being male, refused to fade. She wanted peace, growing up slowly with her mother. Yet this calm felt like a reflection on water—still on the surface, fragile beneath.
Were there others like her? Transmigrators turned little girls. Were they cute? Or crying over their new bodies, not realizing they’d truly changed? Or did they adapt, feeling they’d always been girls?
She didn’t know.
But she doubted anyone caused as much trouble as she did. She’d lived over a decade in her past life, who-knew-how-long as the Demon King here. Still, she acted like a child.
Nevia sat on the bed, face buried between her knees, staring blankly at her bare feet.
Crystal-clear feet, ten slender toes, tiny soles that seemed too delicate to stand firm.
This is me now…
Many fantasized about restarting life. Nevia admitted she’d always been a perfectionist with OCD tendencies—a stubborn, awkward soul. Rebirth felt like reloading a game after GAME OVER, chasing flawless play.
She never wanted to be her old self again. She hated that weak, powerless version. As Demon King, she’d strived to grow strong, to not disappoint others.
More than anything, she craved “acknowledgment.” Unable to define herself, she sought meaning in others’ praise, proof she wasn’t worthless.
Kind people carried heavy burdens. Sometimes she wished to be bad—but she’d never been truly good.
Even now, this life felt like a dream. Yesterday, she’d been cramming for exams, living a mayfly’s fleeting existence. Then she woke to a strange world, strangers everywhere.
She remembered the Demonic Realm’s blood-red “sun.” She remembered those “people” who fought to walk under daylight.
Yes, she called demons “people,” not monsters. As Gonijiaer said, who defines good and evil here? No absolutes. She couldn’t recall their faces, but she remembered them weeping for fallen friends. Remembered them gazing at the grayish-white sky, yearning for freedom like anyone else.
She’d lied to Gonijiaer. She didn’t believe in heroes. Hadn’t for a long time.
In this world, she’d wondered why she was a demon. Her past self was ordinary, shaped by society—no anime-style热血 or justice.
That’s why she loved the 2D world. Outsiders saw childish anime, cute girls and lolis. They didn’t see her hiding from a world too complex. Not chuunibyou—she knew she couldn’t change anything. She buried herself in otaku fantasies.
Imagining blue skies, endless oceans, tides she’d never seen. Seashells, tropical fish. Meeting a gentle girl—maybe childhood friends? Gazing at stars, laughing, playfully punching each other’s chests… “bros”? For her, “friends” meant a bond nothing could replace.
Her eyes felt moist, but she refused to cry. Maybe from forced strength. Or knowing tears would bring only scorn. Crying felt like a luxury she couldn’t afford.
Holding back tears tightened her chest. Of course it did.
She was utterly alone.
So out of sight, out of mind. She’d build her own world in her mind.
That’s what she’d told herself.
Unable to change the world, she pretended to see and hear nothing. Like hiding under covers at night, fearing what lurked in the dark. She knew it was paranoia—but the fear wouldn’t fade.
This was cowardice. She admitted it: she crumbled easily, motivation vanishing for no reason. Her solace was the illusory 2D world.
Humans were strange. Contradictions.
Some hated life yet feared death. Mayflies yearned to live but died at dusk. She’d wanted to shine like the sun—radiant, admired. Yet becoming a girl made her feel life wasn’t worth living.
But the joy of restarting outweighed that trouble. Her once-unlikable self was now liked. Gender didn’t bother her as much as she’d thought. Just a little unaccustomed—relearning familiar things.
Luckily, she’d started as a child. Otherwise, she’d have given herself away long ago.
A knock came at the door—light but urgent.
It snapped her back to reality. Nevia gathered her thoughts.
Not her mother; she’d just barge in. Must be one of today’s visitors.
She lifted her head, innocence painted on her face.
Sometimes, you just had to adapt. That was her first lesson in the Demonic Realm.
Now, she was happy. Truly happy living this life.
